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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23388157">The Powers That Which a Name Carries</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kupfermaske/pseuds/kupfermaske'>kupfermaske</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Nibellian Anecdotes [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ori and the Blind Forest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Gumo-centric, Naru is also implicitly mentioned, also guess who found a better way to post their stuff, i'm new don't blame me pls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:34:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,466</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23388157</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kupfermaske/pseuds/kupfermaske</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gumo returns to the Forlorn Ruins to confront his past.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Nibellian Anecdotes [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1682242</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Powers That Which a Name Carries</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>There is a mobile game I used to play, and the general idea was to play as a detective who travels the world with the objective of finding evidence in murder cases and singling out the culprit from a suspect lineup.</p>
<p>In one of the cases, a suspect the player meets is a Chinese orphan youth called Baibai. His name also reveals that he was unwanted by his parents.</p>
<p>His name written in Chinese is 白白, literally meaning "white-white", which also can mean the phrase "in vain; for nothing." It is also further implied that because of his name, he faced stigma for his background as a child whose parents left him with nothing but a "filler name" to satisfy the orphanage's paperwork.</p>
<p>I'm uncertain if such "filler names" are a real occurrence in Chinese culture, as the game is (clearly) fictional. But it was nonetheless something interesting enough to stick, and it reminded me of Gumo in a weird way; whose name was a direct derivation of his own race "the Gumon." </p>
<p>And the way I see his case, as an example: it's like naming a child "China" simply because they were born to Chinese parents. That is 1) a horrible idea and 2) speaks a lot about the parents and their thoughts -- or rather their lack of thought -- of their child.</p>
<p>Sure, maybe Gumo was named as such because he was expected to be some sort of pinnacle of his race, and I don't contest that theory; that's a good idea and it's poetically inspiring (and tragically ironic considering he’s the last of his kind).</p>
<p>But Drama™ in general makes for a good story (especially if it’s true) and personal interpretation is the unspoken basis for writing fanfiction.</p>
<p>And with all due respect, what are the dislikers gonna do? Stop me?</p>
<p>Given that this exists, I suppose not.</p>
<p>So with all that in mind...</p>
<p>What could have life been like for Gumo, had he been treated as an outcast by his own kind? </p>
<p>And what were his thoughts and feelings when he returned to origins desolate, and further desolated, by Nibel’s blindness?</p>
<p>(Source of Chinese phrase: https://www.wordhippo.com/what-is/the-meaning-of/chinese-word-72bb1c13afb0eed84fc87f7370fab911eb6cebfa.html)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Gumo had been tracking a certain pair for a while by now</em>, the gumon having had found a half curiosity; half respect -- sentiments the gumon forgot existed -- for this utterly selfless and forgiving duo.</p>
<p>   It was easy to identify the bases for such noble emotions. After they spared him whilst exploring his defensible hideout located below Moon Grotto, and not long afterwards Gumo helping the Spirit Guardian by bringing him to dry land after they had (to Gumo's dumb-stricken wonderment) cleansed the infected Ginso Tree; the gumon had ever since grown fascinated of them. For pure reasons, of course. Thus, flowering within Gumo was the desire to observe them, or assist them again, if an opportunity presented itself. Again; for pure reasons only.</p>
<p>   Ori; Gumo heard his name was, from that orb of light that faithfully accompanied the spirit child.</p>
<p>   Gumo was also aware of Ori’s tragedy; having scouted Swallows Nest for some time before today. The gumon, rather readily, had been able to tell that she -- Ori's deceased foster mother -- had so dearly loved her child and vice versa. The crude (but charming) depictions of each other that decorated their home’s walls, their humble crafts, the comfy furnishings that filled their abode -- all were telltale of their familial bond; their unorthodox connection between one of light and one of darkness. </p>
<p>   But surely, at some point, Ori must have speculated -- speculated Gumo -- that saving Nibel would not get his mother back. So why? Why do all this? Just what could move such a small, vulnerable creature to simply <em>continue</em>, to push forward when the entire world has stacked itself against him, all the while knowing he could not restore what that was already lost to the Blindness; foster parent included? What had been the point he found that drove him onwards?</p>
<p>   And just what else, in the name of the Spirit Tree, was this child capable of?</p>
<p>   It was those questions that Gumo sought an answer to through following and watching him. </p>
<p>   At one point during his tracking, Gumo lost them but by fortunate chance caught sight of them again; after almost a day had passed. Why had they been traversing the Misty Forest? Gumo didn't know: he was as clueless as he was regarding the orb's identity -- even of its name! But Gumo otherwise followed, and after putting together that the Forlorn Ruins were their next stop Gumo had planned to meet them halfway; some distance from the closed gates, and inform them that there was no means of getting inside. </p>
<p>   He would also, perhaps, learn the name of Ori’s companion. He would at least try to come to know that. Names are important things, after all.</p>
<p>   "What's your name?" Gumo practised, whispering the words to himself when taking occasional rests. "And what's <em>your </em>name? No…no…"</p>
<p>   His preparatory efforts were sadly wasted. The scene was absent of a Spirit Guardian and his ball of light when he arrived. </p>
<p>   He did find, however, something else.</p>
<p>   The doors to the ruins -- monolithic slabs of carved stone that had long since been sealed with the key to them lost who-knows how many years ago -- now lay open. It was as if it had never been closed a day in its life.</p>
<p>   And as Gumo stood wide-eyed before the ruins' gaping gates, he was met with a dilemmatic gale. </p>
<p>   A harsh chill rushed out to meet him, intensely repelling him; utterly forbidding him, deep down to his bones, his heart; his very being. Gumo, right then and there, wanted to leave. That was his first, base instinct. He wanted to return to his hideout in Moon Grotto; stay there, wait for things to pan out and hope for the best whilst swaddled in his comforts.</p>
<p>   Yet Gumo knew, for a surreptitious fact, that beyond the icy threshold lay something that called to him; some compelling sense of urgency that pulled him forth for reasons that were still murky to him.</p>
<p>   It was truly genuine. It was a <em> righteous </em>urgency, unlike the one he had felt when obsessing over the Water Vein like a mad fanatic, Gumo realized in his digression.</p>
<p>   Yet Gumo didn't know what this compelling feeling was for. So could he follow through with it? Could he even begin to accomplish what he would set out to do, without even knowing what his goal was? Could he fulfil this urgent need? <em>Would </em>he fulfil it; should he choose, come what may? </p>
<p>   Or would he turn tail when it is eventually revealed to him?</p>
<p>   Gumo teetered at a needle’s pinpoint, as it was. He had a choice to make: to flee again; or to face whatever lay in wait for him. And whichever of the two he chose, he had to commit to the plummet consequent; to deal with and bear all that came after. He grew pensive, which was understandable as of this very moment.</p>
<p>   So there he stood still in preoccupied silence, listening to the barren winds that exited the doors. The cold, frigid breezes swelled; ebbed; <em> breathed </em>in his face whilst he weighed his options. </p>
<p>   He gazed into the stony maws of the open gates; the pale snow that filled its every corner; the shadows residing in its dark throat that deepened the further his eyesight allowed. It was a foreboding scene in which all its facets screamed at Gumo to leave; to retreat to safety before it swallowed him. </p>
<p>   Or he could wait for them. From a distance. Find somewhere to sit; recline. Perhaps build a fire and get warm. Get comfortable, or at least try to. They'd come out eventually, right? That's what happened before; at the Ginso Tree, so it should happen again like such, should it not?</p>
<p>   Yet somehow Gumo knew, again; surreptitiously, that inaction would have been a wrong course. Back to square one in his indecision.</p>
<p>   Gumo took a deep breath and embraced himself, conflicting thoughts and all. He sighed heavily as he rubbed his arms up and down, the friction garnering short-lived warmth. </p>
<p>   He glanced back at the whitewashed path he came upon. He saw his tracks in the pale snow, alongside Ori's smaller ones. The ball of light left no footprints, obviously. Gumo was very much tempted to make another set of tracks in their absence; this one going away from the ruins.</p>
<p>   Gumo took another deep breath. He rubbed his arms a little harder, hugged himself a touch tighter. He took yet another deep breath, let out another sigh.</p>
<p>   He stared out from where he stood for another little while. He took in the blue sky and the darkening clouds on the horizon; the subtle, warm shades of cream the sun's rays cast on the colourless ground; the shadows of the dead, gnarled trees that spread across the scene.</p>
<p>   And somehow, with something out there, Gumo had found what he had needed.</p>
<p>   Despite himself, despite the cowardly reasonings he conjured along with his personal, fleet-footed inclinations...Gumo steeled himself. </p>
<p>   He looked back into the waiting gates, mumbled something to himself, then stepped inside. </p>
<p>   Let’s get this over with, was what he said.</p>
<p>   He had to know. He had to see. </p>
<p>   He simply had to.</p>
<p>   It was time for the prodigal to return.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>   <em> It was at this point that Gumo grew aware of an insipid yet slowly intensifying sensation</em>; two persistent points of coldness that increasingly stung his face the longer they remained unattended to. </p>
<p>   He demonstrated his acknowledgement of it by having his brow come together like two tectonic plates; colliding with each other and giving rise to furrowed ridges that appeared on his visage in the midst of his, if not slight; perplexion. </p>
<p><em>   What is</em> <em>that?</em> Gumo grimaced.</p>
<p>   His question would be answered soon as tentative hands felt for, and eventually touched, two solid beads that stuck firmly in place on his face. Both felt equally round under his calloused fingertips, each bead cold and clinging to a cheekbone on either side of his ball-shaped head. Upon discovering that he could remove them Gumo did so, and upon further examination, found two small pieces of ice in his hands. What…?</p>
<p>   It was then that Gumo realized what they were.</p>
<p>   They were tears. Frozen tears.</p>
<p><em>    His </em>tears. </p>
<p>   On Gumo's face, they had left behind their thin, frosted trails in the form of streaks that stopped at the top clefts of his cheeks. They glistened faintly; their near-indetectable presence betrayed by the disembodied lights that filled this place with ethereal illumination.</p>
<p>   Gumo didn’t remember crying. He hadn't felt like he was, nor had he wanted to. So why?</p>
<p>   He kept looking as they shone dully in his dark hands, mellowly glittering out from his deep blue skin like stars in the twilight before eventually melting from his body heat. They returned to their rightful liquid state, as tears were meant to be in.</p>
<p>   But as to what they were for, however, Gumo wasn't sure. </p>
<p>   Yet. </p>
<p>   So until he knew, he wouldn't worry about it.</p>
<p>   He dropped them. Any flecks of saline frost that remained on his face were also wiped off. He instead chose to survey his surroundings.</p>
<p>   His breaths emerged as thick, shivering puffs of vapour that were snatched by the gusts as quickly as they came. The walls around and the ground beneath him were ravaged with patches of hardened ice and slippery sleet, making the place -- Gumo knowing this from a glance -- more dangerous to navigate than it already had been; before the Blindness. It was a far cry to what had all been firm and tractive; reliable stone surfaces that enabled gumonkind to scale the ruins and their twisting heights with ease and confidence. </p>
<p>   With most surfaces swathed in thick, rippling folds of solid ice; joined in merciless wedlock with the desolate wind's incessant, low-pitched wails; eerily lucid, glassy echoes encompassed Gumo wherever he went; deft; yet airy sounds that, once or twice, uncannily resembled shifting whispers that had no owner. </p>
<p>    None that Gumo could see, anyway.</p>
<p>    He also had to squint, look away; shield his eyes from time to time because lights would glint cruelly at him; boreal suns whose rigid, flameless rays danced against jagged spears of ice that jutted out in all directions, threatening to impale anyone who got too close. If one of those blinding lights caused him to look away whilst climbing, even for a mere moment, he might just lose focus, grab the wrong thing, slip and…</p>
<p>   Gumo stopped himself there. He didn't want to imagine it.</p>
<p>   But be it as it was, neither of those things, while they each presented immediate, lethal dangers to him -- none of them was what concerned Gumo. At least, not the most. Where his wet tears had landed, falling onto the frost-ridden ground without so much of a sound, they began to freeze, once again turning back into ice...</p>
<p>   Before someone else's frozen feet.</p>
<p>   Their long, forward-leaning legs were stuck in a frantic dash, presenting the cryptic illusion of preserved momentum whilst an arm was forever outstretched towards Gumo himself. Their mouth was open; a horrific feature made permanent the very moment their life was lost. Dying suddenly; mid-breath. Gumo couldn’t begin to fathom how that must have felt.</p>
<p>   This was the one whom Gumo had first seen upon entering proper: a dead gumon; and they had been the one to officiate his unlikely return. They weren't the only one, though. </p>
<p>   Gumo saw another one behind them. And another. Another one behind those two. Another.</p>
<p>   And yet another next to them.</p>
<p>   One by one, Gumo regarded the other pale, flash-frozen forms within immediate eyesight; the ice encasing them the frostbitten cages that held within them, eternally captive, the corpses of his gumon brethren. He counted twenty or so, so far.</p>
<p>   However, the number of dead that he saw here wasn't what took prominence to him; nor was it the sheer, potential number (<em> could it even </em>be <em>numbered? </em> Gumo wondered) of corpses he hadn't seen yet. </p>
<p>   It was the cold, simple fact that he couldn't recognize them. Not a single one. </p>
<p>  Their faces, like the frozen walls, were veiled underneath such opaque layers of frost; so much so that any distinguishing features unique to them were completely obscured. Gumo, unlike he had with some with their mouths, couldn't tell if their eyes were either open or closed. It rendered them all uniform, frightened-looking statues, each of them lacking individuality; all of them left without an identity. </p>
<p>   Gumo kept staring into the eyes of the dead gumon before him.</p>
<p>   All of them no longer had novel identities. They no longer had names that Gumo could identify. Only he had a name that he could be sure of, and he hated it. </p>
<p>   Yes, he hated his name.</p>
<p>   And about that. All they had left to that; their names, were these desolate remnants of a home, their ruined, ice-wasted inventions and finally their bodies; their frozen, contorted bodies. </p>
<p>   The one that stood before Gumo had their arm outstretched towards him. Just behind Gumo sat the open doors. Just a few more steps and they might have survived beyond, whoever they were.</p>
<p>   Gumo at this point had been envisioning, rather macabrely, in a catatonic state for some time as he continued staring into the featureless eyes of this dead gumon, that their faces were even more contorted than their bodies. His imagination created a variety of horrific images, each of them making centrepoint awful expressions; visages, racked apart with abject terror, beneath all that ice. </p>
<p>   And as for the ones who chose a different path; those who sat down or bowed their heads, towards the blizzard as it raced towards them, as Gumo pictured, they probably had their eyes closed in reluctance. They had submitted themselves -- a proud, intelligent race -- to their grim fate. <em> That </em>was part of their legacy. </p>
<p>   "Pathetic" was the word that came to him. And that other word. </p>
<p>   Legacy. <em> Legacy... </em></p>
<p> Even in great tragedy, Gumo thought; with a sudden bitterness uncharacteristic of him -- he wasn't a part of their legacy. Not even in death. Not even in extinction. He was left out. Again.</p>
<p>   “How cruel. How so very cruel,” he muttered to himself.</p>
<p>   “How good, how very good it is, that they're all dead.”</p>
<p>   Gumo whirled around, startled by another voice. Who was that? Who said that?</p>
<p>   “Dead……dead……dead………” it echoed, answering his question with ruthless clarity.</p>
<p>   It was as if his awareness had condensed into a ball that was knocking at the internal fore of his skull. Only now had he become conscious of its weight; of its retrospective existence. </p>
<p>   Gumo grew stunned; then uncertain; then <em>horrified </em>of himself, when he realized that the ‘other’ voice had been his own. </p>
<p>   Where had such words; such thoughts come from?</p>
<p>   His conscience began to whisper condemnations down at him. Shouldn't he be happy that he was alive? Had he not been outside for whatever the reasons when it happened, he would have died a long time ago. Shouldn’t he be grateful to have lived? Where did such cruel thoughts towards his own, dead kind come from? </p>
<p>   Gumo then began to question where this sudden feeling of guilt came from. Was it guilt? Is that what is causing these consolatory thoughts to form? Why was he trying to atone for thinking such things? Why did he feel the <em>need </em>for atonement? Did he even need forgiveness for such thoughts? </p>
<p>   Maybe, was Gumo’s indecisive answer. Yet did they, his dead kind, deserve whatever he was feeling now, in attempted recompense? Did they deserve the effort?</p>
<p>   No, came Gumo's answer, with firm conviction.</p>
<p>   But did they deserve what happened to them?</p>
<p>   ...No, was where Gumo eventually arrived to (again, where was this coming from?).</p>
<p>   No; he also thought regarding something else.</p>
<p>   He couldn't have been alone. He mustn't have been. He <em>simply </em>mustn't. Surely there were other surviving gumon aside from himself. He just...must have missed them. </p>
<p>   Or maybe they had missed Ori.</p>
<p>   It was at that very moment that Gumo had fully returned to his senses; half of them brought forth from the past, the other half brought back from the uncertain future. Like a resounding bell's toll, the name of the Spirit Guardian became a focal point that resonated with Gumo's present.</p>
<p>   Ori! He had almost forgotten! Ori!</p>
<p>   He further shook himself out of it, also causing a collected mantle of downy frost to descend from his feathered head in a showery plume. The distant glaze that dominated his moon-textured eyes evaporated as he vigorously rubbed it out of them; his mind refocusing on what lay before him <em>now</em>. </p>
<p>   And as Gumo wisely looked up from the grisly display of frozen dead, he did so just in time to see two glowing creatures leap off a ledge, the Spirit Guardian's consequent landing on another ledge causing some snow to fall off and scatter into a blur that had been skewed by the winds.</p>
<p>   And...was that yet <em>another </em>ball of light that was following them? A bigger, shinier one?</p>
<p>   Regardless, Gumo knew that he was climbing to the Element of Winds. He remembered where it was, the room where it resided. He considered going over to them and, perhaps, carrying Ori through this place. It would save him a lot of time and trouble.</p>
<p>   The gumon, however, concluded that Ori would be fine. He did survive the Ginso Tree, after all.</p>
<p>   So Gumo decided that he would catch up with him. Eventually.</p>
<p>   Something else took precedence. There was something he had to take care of first.</p>
<p>   Some place he had to visit.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>   </p>
<p>   <em> There was a reason as to why Gumo lived underground. </em></p>
<p>   It wasn't unheard of for some of his race to do so. The one caveat, however, of doing otherwise -- that is, finding residence on higher levels, of which a good gumon majority had done -- was that a gumon would most likely share the same floor, in close proximity, with that of contraptions that either slammed or rumbled all through the day and night. </p>
<p>   That was also another favoured practise of the gumon: placing their inventions on higher levels.</p>
<p>   That wasn't to say that living below was free of drawbacks. Long, winding commutes, up and down the ruins in a single day, whereas one living upstairs would be closer to their work, was one obvious example of a disadvantage. Further, living underground didn't fully eliminate all those booms, rumbles and thrums, either.</p>
<p>   But in comparison, with several layers of hard-packed dirt and buried stone acting as natural sound barriers, what could have been constantly deafening was reduced to pleasant background noises.</p>
<p>   It was still, admittedly, an acquired taste. Sounds of working machinery were generally no match against the creamy warble of birds; perched above on shifting branches whose fruit-bearing trees surrounded a babbling brook, for an instance of many.</p>
<p>    But the sounds of ingenuity, industry and power; rumbles, booms and the like, were what Gumo had grown accustomed to during his life here. His case was common happenstance, though; acclimating to one's environment, provided it remained the same, since birth.</p>
<p>   Further, those noises helped him sleep at night. The repetitive slamming of stone columns against stone floors/walls with their resounding <em> Thoom…….Thoom……Thooms…… </em> especially; always made him drowsy after a long day's work. And come morning they would always be the first thing he'd hear, even before breakfast; that <em> Thoom……Thoom……Thoom </em>ing. It was a sound Gumo knew would always be there, and he found solace in its constancy; its familiarity. He also took a measure of comfort in knowing that he helped maintain some of the defence systems that aided him in times of rest.</p>
<p>   He had always maintained. He <em>only </em>maintained; only fixed things that were already built. Gumo had never built a single machine from scratch whilst living in the Forlorn Ruins.</p>
<p>   Of course, that didn’t mean that Gumo had no ideas for inventions. He had plenty, just like all his peers. Problem was, to be named Gumo; the literal and direct derivation of his own kind's name, the Gumon, was indicative of a loveless childhood. How could it be otherwise, when it required no thinking; no effort, to give him such a name?</p>
<p>   Like most children, he had lived with a father and a mother. They fed him when he needed feeding; taught him when he needed teaching, or whatever was considered "teaching" in their eyes. But as Gumo matured, even into an adult, he had no real connection with them; felt no true affection toward them.</p>
<p>   He had also never really understood, as a child, as to why the visible joy between his parents left the room whenever he entered. Or, if it remained on their faces, why they didn't let him partake in it. Sometimes they outright ignored him. Most times they dismissed him to go somewhere else, do something else somewhere else, or whatever.</p>
<p>   So he did. No-one stopped him the first time he exited the ruins and ventured beyond the general vicinity. No one cared to stop him. Besides, who'd want to bother with an unwanted child? It'd just be a downright downer to interact with someone like that; with someone whose parents were like that.</p>
<p>   And that was how Gumo grew comfortable being outside the ruins. With the ruins ambivalent of his being present whenever he was there, he simply left and wandered around outside as he pleased. He would leave for a full day at times, sometimes for several days, and return in the dead of night with no one to see him come in. Once, he had been gone for a whole month. </p>
<p>   No-one cared when he returned, and nobody missed him when he went. But that was alright; the columns above his underground home rumbled for him as they had always done, without fail. He would then go high the following morning, make routine inspections, maybe oil a gear or two, and simply go home for a bit.</p>
<p>   Afterwards, he would venture outside and collect more food, more food he <em>liked, </em>to bring home and dine in his room whilst his parents ate separately from him. They couldn't care less if he did otherwise, anyway.</p>
<p>   Plus, Gumo had his little secret out there, in the forests of Nibel: a hideout in an underground grotto where he was free to build all that he wanted; to invent and tinker away at his pursuits whilst being free from the eyes that conspicuously covered themselves from looking at him. </p>
<p>   He was free in his retreat, and it had become a second home; a better one. And like any other home in this beautiful but dangerous place that was the Nibellian forest, it needed defence systems. So he built them exactly as he envisioned them. It took some work, being only one gumon, but he did it.</p>
<p>   He also made sure to have large stones slam against other large stones; both as a defence mechanism, and to bring the one thing he liked from his lonely origins.</p>
<p>   And as Gumo stood, now, in the dirt doorway to his old room (after somehow finding access to his old home despite most underground tunnels being clogged with solid ice), his eyes had fully adjusted to the near pitch-black darkness, allowing him to see into his former life as memories returning to him in vivid colour and sound.</p>
<p>   He could see his old straw bed in the corner. It was smaller than he had remembered. The fibres that made it had withered and frayed; the structure as a whole collapsing upon itself with years of disuse and of abandon; abandon not of his choosing, but to his fortunateness of which Gumo appreciated.</p>
<p>   Several old tools lay strewn about on the dirt floor; a broken hammer here, a shrivelled wooden ruler there, all of it covered with a fine film of dust. Some wooden bowls that held blackened; decayed foodstuffs were also on the floor next to his bed which, thanks to the cold conditions, didn't stink foully, but otherwise still rotted and remained unappealing to look at.</p>
<p>   Gumo didn't find his parents. He was unsure of whether to feel grateful for that; to not know where -- or how -- his parents went. </p>
<p>   But visiting this place, for one last time, solidified the answers he had given earlier. </p>
<p>   Feeling any semblance of triumph that ruin had befallen them was unproductive. It was self-destructive; self-consuming, and such thinking should be discouraged and left behind before it eats away at anything else good.</p>
<p>   At the same time, while they did not deserve forgiveness for what they had done to him then; making him an outcast among his own kind…</p>
<p>   None of them truly deserved this tragedy. Not even his parents, who'd shunned him for reasons he didn't need to know. They were irrelevant now. They had become as such to him.</p>
<p>   Lastly, there was nothing for him here. Wanting to stay in the past would be folly, for not even his past had wanted him.</p>
<p>   So with that, electing to forgo harbouring grudges; to let go of justified feelings of resentment, but also firmly deciding not to forgive the wrongs that had been done against him, Gumo would, in essence, turn his back to the past.</p>
<p>   Loveless history or otherwise, what had happened to him had led up to his survival, and Gumo was grateful for it. He would look back; reflect on it from time to time, for his past was a part of him. He could not change that, and Gumo accepted that fact.</p>
<p>   But what he would certainly not accept was to waste his energy on centring his life <em>today </em>around what had happened. He would no longer feel strongly for things of that nature of which he could not change.</p>
<p>   What he <em>could </em>change, however, was his future and how he would grasp it.</p>
<p>   And as Gumo (now literally) turned his back to his room's doorway, walked out of his old, dusty home and began his ascent to the Element of Winds, he would look to tomorrow with a Spirit Guardian in view. He also now knows why Ori continues at all, despite what had happened to him. Gumo had found an unintentional, yet most profound kinship, with him here, of all places.</p>
<p>   Gumo would help him. For as long as he would live the gumon would aid him, in whatever shape or form he could, come what may. He would accomplish what he had set out to do.</p>
<p>   And Gumo, of the Gumon, would carry the name of his kind if there were none left to carry it with him. </p>
<p>   <em>Gumo the Gumon</em>, Gumo thought to himself.</p>
<p>   For the first time in his life, his name rolled off the tongue well.</p>
<p>   There was, truly, a reason as to why Gumo lived underground.</p>
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